


No Need to Say Goodbye

by kasarin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasarin/pseuds/kasarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair and Anders answer the Calling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Need to Say Goodbye

He had waited. He had waited for far longer than he  _should_  have. He had waited until the nightmares grew so intense that he was rising from his bed as he slept, and would open his eyes to find himself uncomfortably close to another Warden, or — far worse — face-to-face with a charging darkspawn. He waited until he couldn't  _stop_  seeking them out. Then, and only then, did Alistair admit that his time had come.  
  
It was still too early. Barely ten years since his Joining.... Wasn't he supposed to have more time? He needed more time. He needed to wait until his fellow Warden returned. Granted, it had been more years than he cared to count, since she'd gone running off after Morrigan. But she would come back. He  _knew_ she would come back.  
  
He waited as long as he could. He waited, and he waited, and then he was out of time.  
  


~*~

  
The dwarves' solemn words barely registered in Alistair's ears. All he saw was the great door before him, sealed tight against the darkness beyond. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with air stagnant from being trapped beneath the earth, but still so much cleaner than what he would be breathing. He felt the weight of the shield on one arm, the sword in the other, the cool mass of armor covering him from head to toe. The armor that had saved his life so many times, but would do nothing more than prolong it now. He heard nothing but muffled noises from those around him; his own thoughts drowned it all out. How he shouldn't be here. How he should have had more time. How he wasn't ready for this.  
  
How he didn't have a choice.  
  
The door opened. The man who might have been King swallowed the sickness rising in his throat, adjusted his shield, and stepped into the awaiting blackness.  
  


~*~

  
It wasn't until the door ground shut behind him, and the finality of the sound wiped all other thoughts from his mind, that Alistair realized he wasn't alone.  
  
The man beside him was a thin (too thin), disheveled blond wearing a ratty robe that could only belong to a mage. He was also someone that Alistair, who had been a Grey Warden for over ten years (but only just over, only  _just_ , how could it already be his time?), had never seen before. He studied the other man for a moment more, absorbing the sight of this person with whom he was answering the Calling, until the man raised his eyes to meet Alistair's own.  
  
Blue and brown was the only difference. In the man's eyes, Alistair saw reflected his own disbelief; his own anger; his own regret.  
  
This man had been no more ready for the Calling than he was.  
  
Without a word, the man turned away to begin the walk into the darkness. And, just as wordlessly, Alistair followed.  
  


~*~

  
It didn't take Alistair long to figure out why two Wardens rarely answered the Calling together. They were sent here to fight the darkspawn until they died. But together … they were simply too good at fighting, and evidently very bad at dying.  
  
The other man was indeed a mage, as Alistair had suspected. "Anders", he called himself, and Alistair wondered for a moment why that sounded familiar (something about Kirkwall…?) before deciding that it didn't much matter. He introduced himself as Alistair, noted what may have been a flicker of recognition (no doubt much like his own), and left it at that. With nothing but the tainted black beyond, what did their pasts matter? They were to meet the same end, sooner or later. It simply seemed as though it would be  _later_ , with the way they kept on keeping each other alive.  
  
With the healer at his back, Alistair threw himself into each battle with a frenzy that would have made Oghren proud. He preferred to pummel the darkspawn with his shield, bludgeoning them over and over until they had no choice but to try and take him out. He commanded the darkspawn's attention with a ferocity born from a lifetime of fighting, and Anders was free to strike them down with the earth-shaking spells that were his gift as a mage.  
  
At the end of each battle, the unscratched mage would heal any wounds that Alistair had incurred, and they would rest for a time, giving Anders a chance to replenish his mana while Alistair kept watch. It was an efficient system. Too efficient, it seemed. They were sent to die, and yet neither of them were inclined to give in.  
  
Alistair couldn't guess at the mage's motives. He didn't know him well enough for that; their talks, if their could be called that, were few and far between. But he knew that  _he_  couldn't simply give up. Not while he was acting as Anders' shield.  
  


~*~

  
It wasn't fatigue that began to weaken them. Nor was it injury, or lack of mana, or slowly crumbling willpower. It was hunger.  
  
Neither would admit it, at first. They pointedly ignored the other's gurgling stomach, and clamped down the sharp pains shooting through their own. They had been sent to their deaths, and their deaths were to come at the hands of darkspawn. They couldn't  _starve_  down here. They just couldn't.  
  
And yet, that's exactly what was happening.  
  
Alistair's shield grew heavier and heavier. His sword grew slower. He still commanded the darkspawn's attention, but at the cost of greater injuries. Anders' offensive spells were weaker, and his healing suffered as well. Privately, Alistair suspected that Anders would last longer than he himself would. The mage seemed to have some strange reserve of power that Alistair didn't understand. It came with a flash of blue, he knew — but by the time he would be able to turn and look, the light would be gone.  
  
The former templar tried not to think too hard on it. Which wasn't hard, really. All he had to do was let his mind wander….  
  
… But if he let his mind wander, he was as good as dead.  
  
"We can't keep going on like this."  
  
Alistair blinked, surprised to find that the words had come from his own mouth. He turned to Anders, meeting the haunted eyes in the increasingly gaunt face. With the first words having been spoken, there was little Alistair could do but continue.  
  
"We  _have_  to find food."  
  
Or they would die. They would die, as they were meant to die. As neither of them were  _ready_  to die.  
  
A moment passed in silence before Anders pulled himself upright and straightened his ratty robe. Meeting his eye, the mage said, "I think I know where to find something."  
  


~*~

  
The mushrooms grew in abundance in the Deep Roads. Alistair remembered knowing that, at some point;  _she_  had always made sure to collect them, when they were traveling through here during the Blight. How that knowledge had been forgotten, Alistair didn't know. But he was so very, very grateful that Anders knew.  
  
They collected the mushrooms amidst quiet conversation. Alistair spoke of his "friend" with the affinity for both poisons and poultices, and mentioned that she would be dumping whatever loot she had and stuffing her bags to bursting if she saw this lot. Anders laughed — a sudden, sharp sound, like it had been startled out of him — and admitted that he, too, had such a "friend". The talk turned to comrades, then, and Alistair realized that he had far more in common with the mage than the taint in his blood and the Calling in his head.  
  


~*~

  
Looting the darkspawn had never been an issue for either man. They were repulsive creatures, of course, but the need for supplies far outstripped any desire to avoid touching them. Anders kept the more fragile items on his person, where they were less likely to be crushed by a blow from a darkspawn. Alistair took bits of metal to patch his shield and armor to mend his own. And once, after rifling through a darkspawn's belongings (if they could be called that), Alistair slipped a lyrium potion into his pouch.  
  
He didn't attempt to hide it from Anders. Nor did he feel the need, at that time, to offer it to the man: according to Anders, they had gathered far more lyrium potions than necessary. So, Alistair kept it for himself. Should push come to shove, and his 'un-enhanced' templar resistances weren't enough to mitigate magical damage, he wouldn't need  _much_  lyrium. But he would need  _some_.  
  
To Anders' questioning look, Alistair smiled. "Just in case," he explained, and Anders didn't ask.  
  


~*~

  
The darkspawn's blows rained down from all sides. Alistair was blocking them easily enough — he was well practiced in dealing with more than one foe at a time — but he was woefully unprepared for the blast of magic that caught him full in the chest.  
  
The former templar stumbled back, body reeling from the blow despite his innate resistance. He blocked a few more slashes, then staggered again as yet another blast caught him. Then another hit. And another.  
  
Anders was shouting something. He couldn't hear it. A blow — not a magical one, this time — struck Alistair's shoulder, and he heard something clatter to the ground.  
  
His sword. He'd dropped his  _sword…!_  
  
A blast of magic shot past his face, and the darkspawn screamed in pain. Anders, shouting again — it must have been him, driving the darkspawn back. Alistair still couldn't figure out what the man was saying. He forced his eyes to focus, saw the emissary and its awful staff….  
  
… He was too drained to do it on his own.  
  
In one quick motion, Alistair whipped out the lyrium potion and gulped some down. The power surged through him — blinding sweet deadly wonderful  _pure power_  — and he struck the emissary with righteous fire.  
  


~*~

  
" _You…!_ "  
  
It wasn't a word, so much as it was a  _growl_. Alistair blinked past the haze before his eyes (so many dead darkspawn around him, so many thrown back and sliced open and blasted apart and he was all  _bloody_ ) and turned to Anders.  
  
There was no anger in the mage's eyes. There was only hatred.  
  
"You're a  _templar_."  
  
It was spat as if it were the most disgusting, despicable thing in the world. Worse than darkspawn. Worse than demons. A templar. Lowest of the low.  
  
Gently, Alistair wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it, never once taking his eyes from Anders'.  
  
"… I'm a Grey Warden," he answered at last.  
  
A snarl of contempt was the only answer Alistair received, before Anders turned his back.  
  


~*~

  
"I can't believe they sent me to die with a  _templar_."  
  
The sudden sound made Alistair jump, before he realized that it was Anders speaking. The mage hadn't spoken in …. he couldn't say  _days_ , having no concept of time in this place, but it had been many battles ago.  
  
Alistair shifted, blood-encrusted armor creaking, and did his best to ignore the poisonous look shot his way.  
  
"I'm not  _really_  a templar," he tried to explain. "I have their abilities, yes. But the Grey Wardens recruited me before I had to take my vows."  
  
"But you  _would_  have taken them, wouldn't you? You would've spent your whole life terrorizing mages, when they haven't done  _anything_  to deserve it! Our abilities are gifts from the Maker! And  _you!_  You would try to snuff us all out, just on the  _chance_  that we could become abominations." Anders drew himself up, and Alistair realized it was the first time he'd ever seen Anders so full of  _life_. "You treat us like we're all seconds away from dancing with demons — but not all mages are a threat!"  
  
Alistair raised his hands, a placative gesture. "I never said that they—"  
  
"But you would have! You wouldn't have even  _asked!_  You would have just done whatever the Chantry told you, with no thought to the  _people_  you were hurting! And before you try to tell me otherwise: yes,  _all_  templars hurt mages!"  
  
On he went. And on. And on. It quickly became painfully clear that simply waiting for Anders to calm down — to conclude his rant against templars — wasn't going to happen. Finally, Alistair raised his voice to interrupt.  
  
"I didn't  _want_  to be a templar!"  
  
That stopped Anders mid-speech about Andraste. Quickly, before he could start up again, Alistair continued.  
  
"I didn't have any choice in the matter. My uncle … sort of …. he gave me to the Chantry when I was a boy. I was  _ten_ , and he sent me away for something that I had no control over."  
  
Why was he sharing this? What did his past matter, so close to the end?  
  
Then again, what did it matter if he  _did_  say it…?  
  
"I  _hated_  it there. I was good at the training, and I learned quickly enough. But the people — I couldn't  _stand_  them. I didn't want to spend my life serving the Chantry, and there they were, giving me no choice. I was  _miserable_. If it hadn't been for Duncan…." All these years later, it still hurt to speak of him. "The Grey Wardens tried to recruit me, but the Chantry didn't want to let me go. I don't know why; I was just an initiate, and I hadn't even taken my vows. But they weren't going to let me go. So Duncan used the Right of Conscription.  
  
"That day was the happiest day of my life."  
  
Alistair paused for a moment, turning thoughts over and over in his head. All the things that had happened since that day. All the things he'd done. The horrible and wonderful sights he'd seen. The people he'd met. The love he'd had, and lost.  
  
Quietly, he confessed, "If I had a choice, right now, to go back and choose between being a Grey Warden and joining the Templar Order … I'd still choose the Grey Wardens. I would  _always_  choose the Grey Wardens. Even if it meant that my life was always destined to end here."  
  
Silence fell. Alistair let it be; let it stretch on for so long, he thought that Anders must have fallen asleep. But the mage's voice came at last, absent of its former rage.  
  
"Why did your uncle send you away?"  
  
Alistair wasn't sure if the noise that escaped him was a laugh or a cry. In the darkness, he smiled. "Because I'm Maric the Savior's bastard."  
  


~*~

  
"I blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall."  
  
Alistair stopped mid-bite to stare across the little fire, meeting Anders' unflinching gaze.  
  
Anders blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall. Just that. No explanation. No admission of remorse. No comment on the fact that he had ignited the current conflict between templars and mages that had engulfed nearly all of Thedas.  
  
The former templar swallowed his bite and replied, "I impregnated a woman I hated so that the soul of the archdemon would enter her unborn child, instead of entering and killing the Hero of Ferelden or myself."  
  
They stared at each other in silence. Then Anders took a bite of his own mushroom and asked, "So, you're the father of a mini-archdemon?"  
  
"I  _really_  don't want to think about it like that."  
  


~*~

  
It started as an itch. Just an itch that he never seemed to be able to get rid of. Then it spread, and he scratched all the more. He wrote it off as the filth they were in (or the dried blood of darkspawn) somehow seeping under his armor and irritating his skin. It wasn't as though either of them was able to _bathe_  in this place.  
  
He noticed Anders scratching too, but didn't ask any questions about it. No doubt Anders felt just as filthy (like poison under the skin) as he did.  
  
He didn't stop to consider what it could be. Didn't question it, until it spread to the back of his hands, and he had no choice but to look.  
  
His hand was shaking, but somehow, Anders' hands were steady. The mage held Alistair's hand up in the firelight, turning it this way and that, and Alistair wondered if maybe — just maybe — it  _wasn't_  what it looked like. If maybe Anders knew what it was. If it was something else.  _Anything_  else.  
  
"Well," Anders said quietly, as he ran a finger over the blackened, wrinkled splotch of skin. "Now we know why they locked the door behind us."  
  
Alistair dropped his head, shoulders shaking, and Anders held the corrupted hand as he stifled his sobs.  
  


~*~

  
They fought on. What else could they do? Neither would give in. Neither would allow himself to die. Not while the other was still alive, depending on their protection.  
  
They fought, and they killed, and they sat by the fire and tried to talk over the humming that wormed its way into their heads. They were only prolonging the inevitable, but what else could they do?  
  
Anders' Joining, Alistair learned, hadn't occurred until after the Blight had already ended. How could the Calling have come to him already?  
  
Neither of them had been ready for this. But what choice did they have?  
  


~*~

  
"We could end it ourselves."  
  
Anders' voice was quiet. Just loud enough for Alistair to hear above the ever-present humming in his head. He met the mage's eyes, and he saw no sign of jest.  
  
"We could finish it now. End it, before our bodies are completely lost."  
  
Alistair looked at the patch of corrupted skin creeping up from beneath Anders' collar; knew that Anders saw the same sickness slithering across his jawline. The taint was overtaking them at last. Soon, there wouldn't be a patch of  _human_  skin left. Already, Alistair suspected that, if they were to be seen on the surface, they would be killed without hesitation.  
  
… But even so….  
  
The former templar broke eye contact to stare down at his hands. Although they still wielded sword and shield with expertise, they were almost completely black now. Crusted, withered and dry. A darkspawn's hands. Nothing human.  
  
… And yet….  
  
"… I can't die. Not right now. Not when I know … I'd be leaving someone who I should be protecting. And I can't kill you." He clasped his hands together, tight to the point of pain. "I just  _can't_."  
  
He could feel Anders watching him for a long moment. Then came a bemused laugh.  
  
"You would've made a  _terrible_  templar."  
  


~*~

  
They listened to the Old God's siren song, as they tracked the darkspawn deeper and deeper into the earth. They slaughtered every single one they found, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, they were helping to delay yet another Blight. They hunted, and they killed, and they did all the things that the Grey Wardens had done for a thousand years.  
  
And when they stopped chasing the darkspawn and started chasing the  _song_ , they wondered if that's what every Grey Warden did in the end, when they answered their Calling.  
  


~*~

  
"It's beautiful."  
  
Alistair wasn't sure if it was Anders speaking or himself. He closed his eyes, listened to the music, felt his corrupted body twitch and shudder at its terrible splendor.  
  
"If we found it, we could kill it."  
  
Yes. If they found it, they could kill it. They could end the song. They could do something good.  
  
With their last breaths, they could  _choose_  to remain Grey Wardens, and not give in to the darkness screaming in their blood.  
  


~*~

  
Alistair didn't know when they stopped eating. Nor was he sure when Anders stopped having to heal him; when his injuries simply began to regenerate on their own. He remembered when his hair started to fall out. He remembered Anders' choked cry of repulsion, when his tattered robe tore and he saw what lay beneath.  
  
After that, he tried not to notice. He tried to block it out. He tried to cling to the image of himself as a human, strong and whole.  
  
And one day, there was nothing human left of them. Nothing but blue and brown eyes, and the minds that struggled to stay afloat amidst the drowning power of the song.  
  


~*~

  
Fight. Kill. Wipe away the blood. Ignore the thrill. Ignore the bloodlust.  
  
Fight. Kill. Leave the blood. Deny the thrill. Ignore the bloodlust.  
  
Fight. Kill. Smell the blood. Enjoy the thrill. Fight the bloodlust.  
  
Fight. Kill. Taste the blood. Love the thrill. Embrace the bloodlust.  
  
Fight. Kill.  
  
Fight. Kill.  
  
Fight. Kill.  
  
Keep going. Keep going. Don't eat the bodies. Keep going.  
  
 _Keep going._  
  


~*~

  
When they broke into the chamber, it was all Alistair could do to keep from screaming in joy.  
  
His limbs shook with ecstasy, as he laid his (still human) eyes upon it at last. They had made it. Together. Somehow, they had made it.  
  
Torn, tattered lips pulled themselves into a grin, and he turned to Anders to tell him, "I'm glad you're with me."  
  
Anders smiled at that. A true smile, shining through the filth and ruin that was his face. "You haven't been a bad companion, yourself," he replied, and Alistair knew the meaning behind the mage's words.  
  
The former templar clapped a long-decayed hand on his friend's shoulder before drawing his sword. "I'll miss you, too."  
  
Before them, enormous eyes gleamed impossibly bright in the overwhelming dark. Alistair raised his shield. Anders readied his staff.  
  
The Old God roared, and together, the Grey Wardens charged.


End file.
